Adventures Into Hellhound-Sitting
by TheResurrectionist
Summary: Crowley drops off his hellhound for the day. Bobby gets stuck with babysitting duty. It's all pretty much uphill from there. For Angelicaldevil, who wanted Crobby.
1. Chapter 1

A/N This fic was for a prompt from my loverly beta, Angelicaldevil, who rocks my world every day. The prompt was Bobby babysitting a hellhound, and some blink-and-you'll-miss-it (except not really) second part will be up very soon. I hope you enjoy!

Warning: Some crackishness, excessive use of bad language. _  
_

* * *

Bobby's first dog was taken from him by a demon. It's only fair, really, that his second should come from one as well.

It just wasn't what he was expecting. At all. Ever.

Bobby wakes to the sound of the phone ringing with a half-unconscious sigh. He stumbles out of bed, reaching blindly for the handset he knows is somewhere on the table.

"Singer Salvage." He grunts into the phone, eyes still at half-mast.

"Robert," a silky voice purrs across the line, accented to the point of ridiculousness. "Actually. Wait. Before I start. What are you wearing?"

Bobby glances dumbly down at himself before shaking out of his stupor. "Who the hell is this?"

"I bet it's striped." The suddenly-familiar voice muses. "Something silk, maybe? Do you like to _pamper_ yourself, Robert?"

Bobby grits his teeth, hand clenching around the plastic handset. "Crowley."

"Oh, don't sound so constipated, dear." The demon even _sounded_ smug. "I'm just asking a small favor, nothing more."

Bobby quickly walks by every devil's trap in his house, checking for cracks. He grabs a sawed-off while he's at it, walking to the porch to check the perimeter. "How did you get this number?"

"The question is, how _didn't_ I get this number?" comes the snide reply.

Bobby loudly cracks the shotgun in his hands. "Tell me what you want, or get the fuck off my phone, asshole."

"Alright, alright. I'm dropping off a...guest." Loud scratching reverberates over the phone line. "Quite friendly, though! You'll love it."

"It?!" Bobby nearly drops the phone in rage. "Crowley, whatever the fuck you're doing-"

"What? What, Robert?" Crowley shouts much louder than necessary. "I can't hear you, darling...going through a tunnel! What?"

Bobby's rage triples, until he can barely form the words he grunts at the demon. He runs back inside, leaning down to read from his exorcism cheat-sheet. "Exorzimas te, omnis-"

A bit-off groan echoes across the line, accompanied by fake static. The bastard's probably crinkling aluminum foil. "You'll love... I'll be...back for...this evening!"

"CROWLEY-"

With a final crackle, the phone goes dead.

Before he can place the receiver down, a large _thump_ sounds behind him. Hunter instincts flaring, he's on his knees with the loaded shotgun in half a second flat, aiming at the corner.

His heart freezes as a low growl rolls across the room, hands going clammy around the shotgun. Oh no. Oh _no_.

When he doesn't move another growl sounds, and Bobby watches in terrified amazement as a set of scratches appears in the hardwood five feet away from him.

"Oh shit. Ohhhhhhh shit."

Searching the floor around him, the only thing within grabbing distance is some bag Dean and Sam had left laying around the last time they'd visited. He hadn't even glanced in it, but cleaning had never really been his thing anyways.

The garish orange plastic would be distraction enough for him to jump over the table and into the kitchen. Crossing his metaphorical fingers (cause his normal ones were busy holding a shotgun) he leaped up, tossing he bag at the hellhound.

A high-pitched whine splits the air as Bobby dives, sending his already-terrified heart into fits. He lands hard on his right shoulder, pushing up and into the kitchen with numb legs.

Any second now he's expecting sharp jaws to close around his legs, to rip into his back and tear his spine out, but the teeth never come. Frantically grabbing the salt from his drawer, he turns around and holds it at the ready.

A low whine comes from the corner, and Bobby watches in amazement as the hellhound doesn't move. Its breath huffs out in a hot, frustrated gust.

Bobby's eyes widen in surprise as he sees what's stopping it. Spread across the floor, in an all-too-convenient formation, is a line of salted pretzels.

He almost cracks out laughing as another frustrated growl comes from the corner. The invisible monster seems to pace the brown pieces, clawing the wood with a tortured whine.

"God bless Dean Winchester and his terrible eating habits." Bobby says, putting the salt down with a hesitant glance at the hellhound (or where it's standing). "You gonna stay, or do I have to put more salt down?"

Another long whine is all he gets, vibrating the floor with its intensity. Bobby almost feels bad for it, blocked only by his memories of what the things can do.

Bobby doesn't easily forget burying Dean's body. He remembers sliding it into the nameless grave with a mind-numbed Sam-how it barely held together in the shroud.

The things were vicious, but he couldn't really remember them whining that much-or even at all. Maybe it was a pup of some sort? A hellhound pup. A vicious, blood-thirsty, hellhound puppy.

And he had one for a pet now.

Bobby sits down smack on the kitchen floor, grabbing his shotgun to sit _mano a mano _with the hellhound. Jesus.

"So...uh...what do you eat?"

* * *

After a few minutes of "nice hellhound, nice doggie" he inches forward, tossing a peace offering across the pretzels. It's his last steak, but he figures it's going to a good cause.

Claws dig into the meat almost immediately. Bobby watches in fascination as invisible teeth tear into it, ripping the steak into pieces.

He almost thinks it worked when the hellhound sits back, the meat falling from an invisible maw onto the floor. The damned whining starts again, and if the thing wants human flesh, there's no way the day is gonna work.

Frantically he throws anything his hands can touch, tossing a loaf of bread and what he thinks might be an avocado (or a really moldy tomato) into the circle. The items are decimated in an equal fashion, but the thing doesn't eat anything beyond ripping it to shreds.

"Damn." On a wing and a prayer, he reaches into the freezer and pulls out a frozen chicken breast, throwing it at the hellhound.

Nothing. It doesn't even try swallowing the meat. Now, sure, it was some crappy low-quality meat to begin with, but the damn dog had to eat _something_.

He curses as another whine-growl combination reaches his ears, sighing in frustration. "Well, if your daddy had told me what you goddamned ate, we wouldn't be in this problem! Don't you fucking growl at _me_!"

Invisible claws scratch at his near-mangles floors. Bobby puts his head on the kitchen table and tosses whatever's closest to his hand at the thing, the beginnings a migraine forming between his eyes.

A happy barking splits the air, followed by the sounds of liquid hitting the floor. He looks up in amazement to see an orange floating in the air, teeth gnawing through the orange flesh and throwing juice everywhere.

"So you eat oranges." Bobby says, shocked. The hellhound doesn't seem to hear him, too busy ripping the last of the fruit from the peel. Bobby laughs as the thing whines, nudging at its decimated treat with an invisible snout.

"I got more." He reassures it, tossing another orange into the circle. The hellhound descends happily on it, devouring the fruit even faster.

Bobby glances over at the bowl full of oranges sitting on his kitchen table and sighs.

* * *

After nearly a full hour of eating oranges the thing subsides, curling up into itself in the circle and ignoring Bobby. Save for the occasional whimper, he wouldn't have even known it was there.

That scares Bobby the tiniest bit.

Snores filter through the whimpers hours later, and from where Bobby'd been crouched on the ground for half the morning it sounds like thunder. He carefully takes his last orange (and how they'd gone through thirty-two in three hours astounded him) and his cell phone, inching towards the backyard.

He's almost out the door, already dialing Dean's number when a loud snorting sound comes from inside the living room. Turning around, he sees the pretzels vibrate as the hellhound growls, very much awake.

Smiling in a panic at the mutt, he throws his last orange at the circle of pretzels. Sighing in relief, he turns around as Dean's voice speaks in his ear.

"Bobby! Where the hell have you been the-"

He's almost to the porch when something tugs on his pajama leg, and the cold fear that runs through him has nothing on what he feels when he looks down.

Teeth marks catch the soft material, making it slightly damp with hellhound spit and what looks suspiciously like orange juice. The circle behind him is broken, pretzels smashed by the forgotten orange.

A growl vibrates his whole leg, until Bobby can feel the press of teeth into his leg and the moist huff of air the beast lets out. He's frozen, Dean babbling away happily in his ear as he and the invisible dog make what he guesses is eye contact.

"Oh balls. Balls."

Dean continues to talk as Bobby counts down from five, already eyeing the shed two hundred feet from the porch. At _one_, he rips himself from the hellhound's teeth and sprints like the devil's after him.

His pajama pants rip up the seam and then down the other, but he barely notices the fabric fall away in his mad dash for the shed. Any second, he thinks again, he'll feel jaws close around his leg, and there wouldn't be any god-sent pretzels this time-

By some miracle he makes it the the shed before the dog does, red-faced and faster than a teenager at a mall-wide sale. He slams into the wood of hte garage-shed outbuilding, splinters digging themselves into his hands as he throws the door open.

He can hear the hellhound behind him, panting hotly at his heels. With near-perfect timing, he shoves himself aside at the last second and lets the invisible dog slide in. Slamming the door hard (and throwing himself in front of it) he breathes heavy, finally noticing his lack of, well, pants.

"Bobby! Bobby!"

He looks down to see the cellphone lying on the dirt, forgotten in his haste to avoid death by hellhound. Dean's tinny voice spirals up to him, angry and typical Dean-sounding.

"Yeah, m'here." Coughing, he leans against the door. A whine comes from inside, but the wood seems to hold. "What do you...what dy'a know 'bout hellhound pups?"

"Hellhound pups?" Dean sounds incredulous, Sam joining in at the exclamation. "You mean the scary wolf-dog things? Those kind?"

Bobby growls before shaking his head. "Yes!"

"What the _hell _have you been drinking?"

He's gonna smack Dean the next time he sees him. "Boy-"

Just then the windows above him shatter, exploding outwards in shards of so-not-safety glass and pieces of wood. The force of it throws him back a few steps, but it's the cause of the explosion that knocks him onto his ass.

Two distinct _thuds _slam into his chest as he hits the ground, digging into ribs as his whole life flashes before his eyes. He's gonna die.

Hot breath whispers across his neck, and everything goes black.

* * *

A/N To be continued very soon! Drop me a review and let me know what you thought!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N The second part of three. Thanks so much for your reviews! I cannot wait to post the next part!

* * *

Bobby wakes slowly, sluggishly, which surprises him as he floats in between consciousness. His body doesn't recognize hard earth beneath his fingers or the pressure on his chest; he's locked in a hazy, dream-like state, near perfectly content, and-

Something's _licking_ his face.

His slams to full awareness, flinching back from the wet sensation with a gasp. An invisible tongue slides from the edge of his jaw to his forehead, hot and disgustingly moist.

"Oh Jesus." He breathes as the pressure on his chest shifts slightly, closing his eyes. It was all coming back to him-running, hellhounds and...oranges?

His moment of revelation is shattered as his mind catches up with what _hellhound_ and _on your chest_ mean when used in conjunction. Bobby was proud he could remember that word, but his mind was running more along the track of _ohgodpleasedon'teatmyfaceohgodohgod__  
_

So it's a real surprise when the teeth he expects to close around his neck never come. Another lick comes out of nowhere, covering half his face in hellhound spit. A happy bark sounds.

Bobby opens one eye first, then the other, only to get another swipe of that damn tongue. He lets out a noise of disgust as the dog licks his _eyeballs_, pushing the dog away and trying to clear the spit out.

"You don't just- _lick_ a man's eyeballs, dammit! Jesus-" Bobby groans as his eyeballs start to tingle. Blinking even faster, he tries to send a glare the hellhound's way.

Two red eyes meet his, set off by a tar-black coat and an impressive selection of teeth. Sharp, sharp looking teeth.

Bobby lets out a very unmanly squeak and flinches, but the dog's paws pin him to the ground. It's bigger than Rumsfeld was, maybe bigger than most dogs, but obviously still a pup in hellhound terms.

The hellhound in question growls down at him, pressing down with his paws before leaping up again. Groaning in pain as the dog lands on his (bruised) chest (again), there's something familiar about the motions.

After two more jumps (and a lot of licking) Bobby gets the point.

"So you wanna...play?"

The dog barks happily, and how he understood him was something Bobby didn't even wanna think about. The pressure on his chest releases as the now-visible hellhound leapt off to the side.

Rumsfeld had done the same thing, albeit a little less enthusiastically, begging to be played with. So when Bobby got off the ground, he'd find a stick of something.

He just needed a few moments, was all. The ground was mighty comfy after getting leapt on repeatedly by an oversize mutt with a thing for oranges.

As if realizing he wasn't moving, the hellhound barks sharply from off to the side, coming over to nose irritably at Bobby's temple, impatient.

He glares at the dog, voice rising in irritation.

"Can't a man lay on the ground and ponder his life choices for a few minutes?"

Those goddamned puppy eyes make an appearance, and Bobby feels like an ass. He was the one who asked the damn dog to play in the first place, Jesus.

"Alright, alright," he pushes himself upwards, groaning as his chest throbs. "I'm gettin' up. No need to rush."

The hellhound noses around his legs as he stands up, pink tongue lagging as it jumps around energetically. Bobby picks up the nearest stick he sees, throwing it towards the stacks of cars with a somewhat half-hearted 'Fetch'.

Dust flies as the thing scrambles after the piece of wood, claws digging into the soft earth and ripping it apart. The stick falls a couple dozen feet away on the edge of a Toyota he'd given up on, straight ahead of the frantic hellhound.

Suddenly, a huge crash sounds. Bobby watches in equal parts terror and surprise as the dog slams straight into a stack of cars, smashing glass and metal as it dives for the stick. The hood of the poor Toyota crumples like foil under its paws, sending another stack of cars to the side tumbling, completely covering the hellhound.

Bobby's breath freezes in his throat and he stumbles forward a step. He didn't want to know what Crowley did to people who let his hellhounds get killed. And it wasn't even really his fault! What kind of dog ran straight _at_ a stack of cars anyway?

A second later, a victorious head pops up out of the wreckage, stick held firmly between its jaws. Bobby watches in amazement as the hellhound bounds back over just as enthusiastically as before, seemingly unharmed.

"So you like it rough." is all Bobby can think to say, already smacking himself for the bad joke as relief pours over him. The hellhound drops the stick, barking energetically in his general direction.

"Bossy." Bobby mutters, tentatively picking up the slobbered-on stick and drawing his arm back to throw. "Fetch!"

He can do this.

* * *

It's around two when the hellhound (Fang, demon mutt, Mike-he hadn't picked a name out yet) starts to lag, energy sinking as he chases throw after throw into the field of cars. He was gonna trash most of them anyway, so Bobby doesn't focus on the obvious carnage surrounding his once organized yard, or he'll probably have a heart attack.

He'd given up standing sometime around one, throwing the stick cross-legged on the dirt. Afternoon sun shines down on his head, a blatant reminder that his lunch and breakfast had already passed.

Bobby smothers a laugh as the dog runs into more than its share of cars towards the end, stumbling dopily towards his outstretched hand with the stick in mouth. Reduced to nothing more than a few wood pieces held together by bark, fetch didn't seem like it was gonna last very much longer.

The third time the hell mutt runs into a stack of cars more than ten feet away from the actual stick, Bobby calls it quits. He whistles sharply, only half-surprised as the dog obediently, if somewhat sloppily, runs over.

"There's a good boy, there's a good boy." Bobby says, running a hand through the silky black hair at the pup's neck. It drops the mushy stick at his feet, panting heavily.

Bobby's stomach rumbles loudly right before he speaks. He presses a hand to his stomach, suddenly ravenous.

"I think it's lunchtime. Is it lunchtime? Huh, boy?"

The hellhound barks happily, head sagging against his thigh. Bobby nods to himself, nudging the dog until they're walking toward the house.

"Now, I'm gonna have to leave you at home if I'm gonna run and get oranges." He tells the demon mutt walking next to him very seriously, pointing at the house. "Else you'll eat something you ain't supposed to while you're invisible and we can't have that."

A low whine drifts up to him, this time with the added puppy dog eyes, but the hellhound follows him dutifully into the house. Bobby grabs the keys, settling the mutt in the living room (this time away from the salted pretzels). With one last whine from the exhausted dog, he's out the door without a glance behind him.

He opens the door to his truck only to find the hellhound sitting in the passenger seat, tongue lolling with an innocent expression. Bobby narrows his eyes, pointing sternly at the house.

"Out."

The dog whines, leaping out of the open window that's this side of just big enough to fit him. Bobby watches attentively until the dog clambers back up the steps and into the house.

He turns around to turn the key in the ignition, sitting down and reaching over to buckle his seatbelt. When he turns around again, the mutt's right back in the passenger seat.

"Oh, for fucks sake."

Bobby throws his hands up as another whine sneaks out from between the dog's lips at his tone.

"I mean it. Out."

Blood-red eyes find his, and this time the mutt growls softly. Any other staring contest with a hellhound would have Bobby quaking in his boots, but he crosses his arms instead, trying to look authoritative.

"I'll buy you oranges."

Silence. The hellhound waits patiently, and Bobby gets the distinct impression he's not going to win this round.

Revving the engine in irritation, he shifts gears fast enough to throw the dog back into the seat a little.

"You wanna take a car ride so much, fine." Bobby grumbles to himself, and there's never been a moment where he's felt more ridiculous. "I'm picking the music."

* * *

He ends up hightailing it to Sioux Falls' only grocery store, ignoring the invisible hellhound riding shotgun as best he can. Peter Gabriel plays softly in the background, coupled with the wind whistling in from the open window. The hell mutt seems to be enjoying the ride, though, head a permanent fixture outside the truck's window.

Bobby cringes as it barks at the few oncoming cars they pass, hoping they'd attribute the furious barking sound to something else, like schizophrenia.

The dog stays locked up in the car for good when they stop, with Bobby locking all the windows and praying the dog wouldn't break them. He can just imagine that scene-an invisible dog smashing his windows in a full parking lot and bounding into the grocery store. It was Sioux Falls, however.

The cashier gives him a strange look that Bobby blatantly ignores as he piles a full case of oranges to the register, the cart behind him filled with two more. It's gonna have to be enough for the rest of the day, even if the dog does eat at a mile a minute. He gets his change and practically runs out of the store, praying to whatever god looked out for babysitters that there were no hellfire pee stains on his seats.

He must be quite a sight to see, dragging two carts filled to the top with oranges at a frantic pace towards his truck, but his heart rate only increases as his eyes fall on the truck.

In perfect, plain sight, is the open passenger door.

"Shit!"

* * *

A/N Drop me a review, and let me know what you thought! :)


	3. Chapter 3

A/N The final part of this story, which has been a doll to write. Thank you so much for all your follows and reviews! I hope you enjoy this last chapter!

* * *

Bobby, ever valiant in the face of possible heart attacks, restrains himself from screaming as he runs towards the truck with a cart in each hand. The oranges bounce and tumble around him, and he barely has time to shove them against the bumper and pray nobody takes them.

"Here, doggie," He waves an orange around, eyes roving the parking lot for a glint of red or obsidian. People give him a wide berth, most likely oblivious to the hellhound running around.

"Come here, you mutt." He grabs another orange and takes off at a brisk pace across the asphalt, waving his hands in vain. "I got oranges. Oranges, remember?"

If the thing was eating a toddler somewhere of something, Bobby would never forgive himself. Or the dog.

"Damn it, what's the matter with you?" Bobby whisper-screams as he circles the area around the store in vain. "I ain't playin' dumbass hide and seek all day!"

A far-off bark sounds a second later, echoing from a line of trees to his left. Oranges in hand, Bobby practically sprints in the direction of the sound, muttering to himself.

"Where are you?"

Another bark sounds a few feet ahead, between a large fringe of trees. Bobby groans to himself as he hears the telltale sound of running water, trudging onwards.

He parts the pines to find the edge of a stream (more like a pond) surrounded by trees and relatively shielded from the town.

The little fucker is swimming in the middle of the stream, barking lightly as Bobby approaches. He almost trips on a tree root on he way down, throwing a hand out to catch himself.

"Fuck." He grumbles as the orange smashes against the cool ground, splattering juice and fruit across his fingers. "Fuck you, dog. Fuck your stupid oranges. Fuck!"

The hellhound barks merrily from the water, swimming forward to the shore. Bobby stumbles upright and gives him his best glare.

"The hell you thinkin' running away?"

Red eyes pout up at him. A low whine escapes the pup's lips, but he really doesn't care.

"I thought you were-eating a baby, or something!" Bobby points at the dog, growling. "You could've been shot!

Not to mention the entirely too likely possibility of Crowley killing him. Then he and the dog would both be in hell, and neither of them would have three cases of goddamned oranges.

Bobby glares as the hellhound tries to shrink away back into the water. "Don't you run away from me."

The dog whines loudly, glancing forlornly back at the water. Bobby's eyes narrow.

"It ain't time for swimming, damnit!"

Another long whine.

"I have a whole cart of oranges back at the truck." He pleads, throwing aside the smashed one and holding the intact fruit high. "See that? Quality fruit. I paid a lot of money for this shit, cause you seem to like it."

The mutt gives him a look Bobby swears says _I ain't buying it._

"Seriously? Do you wanna see the receipt? You owe my ass. I bought three cases of fruit. All ya gotta do is come back with me."

The dog edges closer to the shore, nose twitching at the fruit. The second its fur leaves the water the hellhound flinches back, throwing its body back into the stream with another goddamned whine.

"We can swim back home." Bobby throws up his hands, abso-fucking-lutely done. "Promise."

The dog tilts its head, inching out of the water. Bobby waves his remaining orange in front of him, smiling as the mutt latches into the fruit in a flash. He pets the hellhound, tangling his hand in its fur.

Time to go home.

* * *

By the time he manages to get the dog back to the truck, his carts are still mostly intact. Half of the oranges are on the ground around the cars, smashed by various passerby. He can see the dents the carts put in his bumper from twenty feet away they're so large. Fuck.

He tightens his hand in the hellhound's fur, pulling it away from the families and people around him. The dog just hunks against his side, still munching on the tummy remains of an orange in its mouth.

"Mister!"

Bobby walks faster and ducks his head, dragging the conveniently invisible hellhound with him as he makes a break for the car. The voice behind him gets more insistent.

"Mister! Sir!" A small hand grabs his shirt, stopping him. He growls, suspiciously like the hellhound.

"What?"

A little girl faces him, barely three feet tall in her pink plastic shoes. She holds out her hand, the other going to her mouth.

"You dropped your receipt." She mumbles around her thumb. Bobby snatches the piece of paper from her wordlessly, already turning around to make another run for it.

"No, wait! Is that a dog?!"

Bobby freezes in place, gritting his teeth as he faces the girl again. "No."

The hellhound barks enthusiastically at his side.

"Yes it is." The girl says matter-of-factly, staring in the general location of the dog. "It just barked."

Bobby glances around nervously as no parent comes forward. "No it didn't." He backs up a few steps. "I have a...disease."

"A disease that makes you bark?"

Bobby nods furiously, tightening his fingers around the energetic hellhound. "Exactly."

The girl sticks her thumb back in her mouth, dubious. "So why do you have your hand-"

"Sorry, gotta go. It's very contagious, sweetheart."

He drags the stupid hellhound behind him and all but sprints for the truck, throwing open the passenger door and shoving the dog in.

He ignores the looks he can feel on his back as he loads the oranges in the trunk with what must look like a crazed expression. Slamming his door closed, he lays down rubber and oranges roll as he books it.

Eh. He was the town drunk already.

* * *

They get home quick enough to stun even the hellhound, which very wisely chooses not to stick its head out the window this time around. AC/DC blares the whole way home, and Bobby's on the third rotation of _Hell's Bells_, wishing the day would just be over already.

They get home around four, but the sun's still high in the western sky when they roll in. Bobby grumbles to himself as he drags the stacks of orange cartons inside, muttering about opposable thumbs and anything else that crosses his mind. The hellhound waits patiently as he works, dutifully following him out to the car as he unloads.

"Swimming time?" Bobby asks reluctantly as he tosses the last orange inside, already regretting the bribe.

The hellhound barks smugly, eyeing another orange from its spot at the door. Bobby sighs in defeat, grabbing two of the ghastly fruit and pushing past the mutt and out the door.

* * *

"It's South Dakota. What were you expecting, hot water?"

The dog sputters. Then sputters again, a low whine escaping its lips.

"You were the one who wanted to go swimming." Bobby reminds it, laughing behind his hand as the dog sends an honest to god death glare his way.

The lake behind his yard was tiny, but it went down almost twenty feet and had a small, wooden dock edging out towards the center. It was part of the property agreement deal he and Karen had made all those years ago, when they thought they were going to have children to jump and play in it.

And to be completely honest, Bobby wasn't really expecting to have a hellhound mucking around in it, but that's the joy of life sometimes. It throws shit at you.

The mutt scrabbles up onto the deck with a defeated glare, shivering slightly. Bobby just smirks.

"Teach you to run off. Hmmph."

It's only fair game what happens next.

One second Bobby's on the edge of the pier, facing the dog when a blur of motion knocks into him. He barely has time to shout out before he's tumbling into the freezing water.

For a second he doesn't think he'll surface, lungs seizing as the icy water hits his skin. He lets out a shocked scream under water, kicking vainly towards the surface.

"Oh you. Oh-" Bobby sputters, shaking his head back and forth to remove the icicles that probably formed while he was down there. "You _bitch_."

The hellhound preens from where it's perched on the edge of the dock, smug. He can hear it huffing from seven feet down, what must be the equivalent of hellhound laughter.

Bobby throws water at it, grumbling as he tries to paddle to the shore.

"You're lucky I can swim," He tells it bitterly as he pulls his sopping clothing out of the water. "When I get you, I'm gonna-"

"_Dar-_ling!"

The hellhound spins in front of him, growling at the new voice. Bobby doesn't miss the protective stance it takes up in front of him, fangs extending on a intimidating growl.

"Chill, love." Crowley says from a few feet away, waving a hand at the dog with a sleazy smile. "Just Papa."

The spell breaks and the hellhound tumbles forwards, leaping onto the demon's chest with an enthusiastic _woof! _Bobby shakes his hat dry and thinks about all the things he'd do to Crowley if he had fangs and a hundred plus weight advantage.

"Robert, darling, let's not forget about you." The demon in question waves him over, face still being licked and covered in hell-slobber. "Come here."

"Fuck you." Bobby grunts at him. "You're lucky I don't unload my shotgun into your ass."

Crowley's eyes go wide. "I'd _love _for you to unload your 'shotgun' into my ass. Any time."

His teeth chatter, either in fear or cold. "F-fuck you."

"That's the idea." The demon banters back, but the lewd look in his eyes disappears. A second later, he's standing outside of his house in warm, dry clothes.

"Better?" Crowley asks from his left, voice uncharacteristically soft. Bobby crosses his arms and nods frigidly, glaring at the demon.

"I didn't sign up for babysitting duty, if that's what you're asking."

The demon throws his hands up in defense. "I had a _thing._ Do you know how hard it is to track down nannies these days? It's-"

Bobby interrupts. "I'm a goddamned nanny now?"

"No no no no," Crowley waves his hands, hellhound still attached to his leg. "You think I'd trust just _anybody _to watch this beauty?" He nuzzles the dog's snout. "Yes you are, precious. Such a pretty girl. Yes you are."

Well goddamn. "She's a...she?"

Crowley gasps dramatically. "You couldn't tell?"

"I couldn't see it until two hours ago!"

"Oh." The demon considers, hands rubbing the hellhound's fur. "Yes, that might've been a problem. Sorry?"

Bobby just glares at him. "Damn right you're sorry! Do you know how many oranges I bought today?"

The hellhound-she-it-barks from the ground, leaning forward to rub her head across Bobby's leg. He sighs before placing a hand on her snout, rubbing softly.

Crowley's eyes go a little far-off as he watches the two of them, leaning forward. "Robert-"

"What." Bobby doesn't look up from where he's petting the hellhound.

"Robert."

Bobby looks up. "Don't call me-_oomph!_"

His eyes go wide in realization as Crowley's lips smash against his, soft and yet unyielding as they press against his. He hears a screeching sound off in the distance, too occupied with thoughts such as _holy shit _and _does this count as a deal? _

"_Crowley!_"

He gets his senses back in time to reach an arm back, tearing his lips away and slamming his fist forwards in a fit of outrage. The demon happily dances out of the way, sliding back fluidly and waving.

"Ta, darling."

With a snap of his fingers he and the hellhound are gone, disappearing completely from the yard. Bobby gazes at the spot on the grass they were standing, dumbfounded.

"Bobby!"

Sam's face barrels into his line of vision, along with Dean's as they both push into him.

"Bobby, are you al-"

"What the _fuck__-" _

The impala sits behind them, hahazardly parked next to a pile of scrap. Bobby straightens his shoulders and tries to muster some of his dignity back.

"Sam. Dean." He's calm. He's totally calm.

"Bobby, what the _fuck_?" Dean yells, Sam halfway through his own rant. "We thought you were getting eaten!"

Oh. The phone call.

"It's a long story."

Dean drags him by one arm up the stairs, toeing the door open while Sam hoers cautiously behind him. "Then we're getting a bottle of whiskey and you're spilling. All of it."

Bobby slumps in his arms in defeat, closing his eyes. "Okay."

"Okay." Dean affirms, dumping him towards Sam. "Now-"

A heavy _thump _sounds, like shattering wood.

Bobby opens his eyes to find Dean on the floor, gaping up at Sam.

"And why_ the fuck _are there so many oranges?!"

* * *

A/N The end! Drop me a review, and tell me what you thought! :)


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